Snippets
by agentsofpuppies
Summary: A series of prompt fills from Tumblr and elsewhere. All Clint/Natasha. Currently: Clint and Natasha attend an Ugly Sweater party.
1. Prompt: Sick

Notes: These aren't chronological, just a series of Clint/Natasha prompt fills. Genres and length will definitely vary. You never know what you'll get!

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><p>"Can I help you?"<p>

His light, teasing sarcasm drew her away from that hazy state between sleep and wakefulness. Clint stood with arms crossed, wearing full tac gear with his bow case at his feet.

"You're back." She sighed contentedly and let her eyes close again, convinced it was finally the real Clint stood before her. He'd come home three times already, twice in dreams and once as an hallucination, brought on either by the fever or wishful thinking.

"You're in my bed."

He sat beside her and pulled the hood of her sweatshirt back, brushed his fingers across her forehead. Her skin prickled uncomfortably at the coolness of his touch and she flinched away.

"You okay, kiddo?"

_Don't call me that, Barton._

The appropriate response rested on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't find the energy to rise to his baiting. He liked to throw around the old nickname - a relic from their first few weeks as partners - when he needed reassurance she was conscious, usually in the field.

"Natasha."

He began to peel away her cocoon of blankets, layer by layer. When he got down to the big sherpa throw she rallied enough to push his hand away and flip her hood back up.

"Stop, Clint. It's cold."

Why did she want him home, again?

"It's not cold. You've got my thermostat stuck on 80."

But he tucked the pile of blankets back around her. His hand rubbed absently across her shoulders.

"You're really sick this time, Tash. Why didn't you go to Medical?"

"You weren't here."

It was stupid and childish, she realized that, but she'd never been able to make herself trust the S.H.I.E.L.D. medics.

"Hill would've gone with you."

"Couldn't find her."

"Didn't see her in the two hallways between your room and mine, you mean."

She hummed a noncommittal sound, but didn't think his very accurate assessment needed to be dignified with a response. Clint sighed and rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

"Your choice: me or Medical?"

"I'm not going to Medical."

Her declaration was undermined by a coughing fit, a harsh barking sound that made her chest ache.

"Stubborn," Clint accused, "but I slept on the Quinjet last night and don't have the energy to fight you." He disappeared into the bathroom.

When he returned he forced a thermometer on her ("102 and-a-half, God Nat, how are you still alive?"), made her swallow three pills and a plastic measuring cup full of sticky sweet syrup, swapped the pullover for one of his old t-shirts, and confiscated half her blankets.

"You're doing the opposite of making me feel better," she informed him, shivering under the paltry three layers of covers he'd left her with.

"You don't need six blankets and a pullover," he said, stripping out of his tac suit. "You _do_ need to stop talking before you lose your voice completely."

He sat beside her again, this time in his boxers and mismatched socks, and resumed rubbing her back.

"Want anything before I shower?"

"My blankets back?" she appealed, and he rolled his eyes.

"Now you're just being a pain in the ass." He mussed her hair and tucked one of the blankets tight over her shoulders. "I'll leave the door open if you need me."

He passed out of her line of sight and her eyes fell on the pile of leather and Kevlar across the room instead. His quiver sat overturned by the door, arrows spilling out onto the carpet, and his bow case leaned against the nightstand with one clasp open.

She couldn't recall ever seeing his equipment abandoned on the floor. It gave her an anxious little flutter in her chest that wasn't entirely unpleasant, and which she didn't care to examine at the moment.

The steam from the shower warmed the room, making the air humid and thick, and finally, _finally_, she felt tired muscles relax as the shivering subsided. Then Clint was sliding in behind her, leaning up on one elbow, heat still radiating from his skin after the shower. She pushed back against him and he tangled their legs, draped his arm across her chest, tucked her head into his shoulder. She clung to his forearm and twisted their fingers together.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here sooner," he mumbled into her hair, but she shook her head slightly, absolving him. She'd waited longer than two days before, and would again. His lips brushed soft and warm against her temple.

"You're better than Medical," she told him in a hoarse whisper.

"You're a cheeseball, Romanoff."

She felt the cherry-flavored syrup dragging her under, toward real sleep, not the fitful when's-Clint-coming-back half-rest she'd been battling. His voice washed over her, comforting in the same way his fingers combing through her hair was comforting, slow and gentle and steady.


	2. Prompts: Ugly Sweater & Mistletoe

**Prompt(s): Ugly Sweater/Mistletoe**

The soft chirping of the keypad in the hallway announced Clint's arrival. Her first instinct was to bound into the living room and find out what the big deal was about his ugly Christmas sweater. He'd been annoyingly secretive about his outfit for the party, putting her off with '_You'll see_' and '_Don't want to ruin the surprise_' and '_You need to do your own thing this year, there's no way we can match_.' She wouldn't admit it, but she quite liked attending the S.H.I.E.L.D. Annual Ugly Christmas Sweater Party with Clint in matching hideous sweaters. It was _their thing_.

_Barton and Romanoff? They never have an extraction plan. _

_Barton and Romanoff? Of course they're going to win the Ugly Sweater Trophy again this year. _

She wouldn't admit it, but maybe she wasn't quite dressed yet because she'd been sulking in her underwear for the past half-hour. She didn't want Clint to know that, so while he banged around in her kitchen she pulled her sweater on. The sweater was custom made, fitted to hug her curves in all the right places, and was more dress than sweater, as it came to mid-thigh. A bright Christmas blue, with the silhouette of one reindeer humping another crocheted in white. Thank you, Etsy.

She tugged on black leggings and a pair of heels as Clint came to lean against the doorjamb, sucking a candy cane he'd presumably stolen off her tree.

"Aren't you ready yet? We're gonna be late."

She eagerly flicked her eyes away from the strap of her Louboutins and looked him up and down. At first, she didn't get it. Disappointment swelled in her chest; she'd been expecting something really spectacular. His red wool sweater was reasonably benign, if a little oversized, but then...

"_Ohmygod_, Clint! I am _not_ going with you like that."

"Yours is just as bad!" he counter indignantly.

"This is an _Ugly Sweater_ party, not a _Get Written Up For Sexual Harassment_ party. You can walk in by yourself."

God, he'd blown their winning streak for _that_? The knife hidden in the top drawer of her nightstand seemed like an appropriate response.

"You're not even wearing pants!" he scoffed. "You don't have any room to talk about harassment."

"Leggings _are_ pants, genius."

She brushed past him to gain the living room, reminding herself that it was Christmas and she should be kind and forgiving and not stab her partner. He smacked her ass.

"Write me up?" he suggested, and waggled his eyebrows. "We could skip the stupid party."

Was that his game? Pick an outfit guaranteed to embarrass her, give her an out, and spend the rest of the night naked in bed?

He absolutely did not deserve hot sweaty sex, especially since he'd cost her the trophy. He wasn't getting out of this one unscathed.

"But you put so much effort into your costume," she deadpanned, and followed it up with an eye roll. "I've already told Hill and Carter we're coming."

If he was disappointed, he didn't let on.

"Wish Cap was making an appearance." Clint sighed wistfully and pulled a dreamy expression. "The night might actually get interesting."

"Hill and Carter aren't going to catfight over Steve. Find another source of entertainment."

He followed her to the door, apparently intent on badgering a little hint of office gossip out of her.

"_Please_, I saw Maria checking out his ass in the conference room last week."

"Everyone checks out Steve's ass. _I_ check out Steve's ass."

Clint paused in the doorway, causing the automatic sensor to bleep angrily.

"You check out Spangles?"

Natasha shrugged and continued down the hallway. She could imagine his crestfallen expression, the sad puppy eyes.

"I check out your ass, too."

What the hell, it was Christmas.

"Yeah?" Clint called after her, audibly brightening. He jogged to catch up. "Whose is the best?"

"Mine," she answered decisively. He considered for a moment.

"Eh, fair enough."

They were fashionably late, but Natasha didn't much care. The first hour was always awkward groups of rookies hovering around the karaoke stage and wondering how much alcohol was appropriate for an office party. Hour two was usually when things picked up.

She came up short at the door, waved Clint through, and gave him thirty seconds lead time so she wouldn't be associated with..._that_. Almost immediately she heard '_Bro!_' and '_Nice one, Barton!_' and '_That's my vote!_'.

She took another thirty seconds to master the stab-my-partner impulse.

When she entered, she spotted Clint by the bar, fighting his way through what appeared to be the entire R&D department to place a drink order. Hill and Carter were stationed at one of the tall cocktail tables scattered around the perimeter of the room. Natasha detoured, leaving Clint to his fate.

"You and Barton fighting?" Hill asked in greeting. "You don't match."

"He wanted to do his own thing this year."

Carter stood on tiptoe and craned her neck to get a better look at the bar.

"His sweater doesn't look that special," she assessed. "I think he blew it."

"Oh, he definitely blew it. It's not the sweater. It's...just wait. He'll bring drinks in a minute."

They had a round of '_Nice sweater_!' and '_Love the shoes_!'. Carter had a big Rudolph head splashed across the front of her sweater, complete with a blinking red LED nose. Hill's sweater was more understated but classic, Merry Christmas Ya Filthy Animal picked out in red thread on green wool, but she'd found a pair of Manolo Blahnik glitter pumps that brought her game up a level. Natasha eyed them enviously.

They were making bets on which of the rookies would need carrying off the karaoke stage by the end of the night when Clint appeared. He shoved in between Hill and Natasha and plunked four beers down on the table

"Well?" he asked, taking a step back and spreading his arms wide, inviting opinions.

Carter's eyes lit up as if Christmas had come early. Hill choked on her martini.

"_Ohmygod!_" Carter assessed gleefully.

"That's what I said," Natasha agreed, "but not with that tone."

She popped the cap of her beer against the edge of the table and downed half the bottle in one long draw.

"_Why_?" Hill wanted to know, shaking her head faintly as disgust curled her features.

"Are you going to karaoke, too?" Carter suggested.

"Hey! Not bad, Carter!" Clint bumped shoulders with her; she shot him an annoyed glance as beer sloshed out over her fingers. "See? She gets it! How many people here have a song-and-dance number to go with their outfit? I'll totally win."

"I'm not drunk enough for this," Hill groaned, and disappeared in the direction of the bar. Natasha privately agreed.

She finished her beers and waited impatiently for Clint to finish the last two, so she could send him back for more. They spent the next hour wandering around the room together. The girls from payroll giggled stupidly at Clint and flirted their eyes, Coulson stopped dead ten feet away and called '_I am not dealing with that_' before vanishing seamlessly back into the crowd, and Natasha kept scanning the perimeter of the room.

And then she saw him, Father Christmas himself, minus the beard and plus an eye patch. Fury was chatting with the head of the IT department, decked out in a red velvet Santa coat with white fur trim and a matching hat.

"Hey, look!" she said brightly, and grabbed Clint's wrist in a death grip. "Saint Nick!"

Clint dug in his heels and tried to pull away.

"Nat, no!" he hissed urgently. "Don't be an asshole!"

"Director Fury!" she called. She raised the hand that held her fourth (Fifth? She couldn't keep up.) beer and waggled her fingers.

Fury broke away from his conversation and made his way over. Clint stopped struggling, and she whispered _'You're not taking my trophy_' sweetly in his ear.

Oh, she would have let it go if he'd chosen a run-of-the-mill hideous sweater and taken a stab at the trophy that way. She liked a little healthy competition. But she absolutely was not going to be associated with her partner having his junk gift wrapped.

Her eyes flicked down to Clint's crotch, where a brightly wrapped present was suspended from his belt, complete with a glittery mesh bow on top and a giant sprig of mistletoe.

Fury greeted them with smiles at first, and Natasha wished him Merry Christmas and waited for the shit to hit the fan. Fury's expression visibly hardened as he took in their ensembles.

"Agent Barton," he began, his tone dangerously soft and composed, "are you implying there's a dick in that box? And are we invited to provide you with sexual favors? Is that why you've incorporated mistletoe into the gift wrap?"

"I think that's the idea," Natasha interjected helpfully. Clint cut his eyes sharply in her direction. She pressed the beer bottle to her lips to hide her smirk.

"Son, you better rethink your fashion choices. I'll take a lap of the room, mingle, and when I come back I _do not_ want to see that box."

"Aww, Fury! I was gonna win!"

Fury pinned him with a glare that made even Natasha retreat a step, before turning his back and walking purposefully toward a group from accounting.

"You were going to get suspended," she shrugged, unrepentant. She drained the rest of her beer and helped herself to Clint's. "Then I'd be out a partner for Sao Paulo next week."

"Fury can kiss my ass," Clint muttered, not paying her any attention as he grudgingly removed his belt and the box with it. "I didn't even get to do the song."

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><p>Note: Sorry, not sorry. If you're lost, look up the SNL skit "Dick in a box" then come back and read it again. (:<p> 


	3. Lola

Not a prompt, I just wrote a thing.

**Lola**

"Greenscreen," Hunter proclaimed in an obnoxious sing-song voice.

"No way," Trip shot back. "That's raw footage from a camera on Third. Tell him, Skye."

"We're not even supposed to be _looking_ at this. I'm not tearing the file apart to see if it's been edited."

"I've got clearance. Hack away, I'll take the heat if we get caught."

"I like you, Barton."

"That asshole needs to be proved wrong." Natasha glanced over her shoulder to find Clint jabbing his finger at Hunter across the table. "Greenscreen my ass. That's Captain America and Black Widow."

"That's an impossible jump!"

"_I was there_. It happened. Fuck's sake."

"Really? Because according to the files, you were busy trying to drop Fury's Helicarrier in the middle of the Atlantic."

Natasha reflexively tightened her fingers around the gun in her hand a half-second before the group behind her exploded. Three chairs scraped back, two falling with a bang to the floor. Trip's admonishment of '_Easy, guys!_' was lost under a squeal from Jemma and swearing from Skye as she clutched her laptop protectively against her chest.

"_Hey!_" May shouted, forceful and authoritative. "Don't make me come back there."

Clint and Trip lifted themselves off the table and Hunter pushed off from the wall where he'd hastily retreated, picking up his chair. Skye returned her laptop to the table with a scowl.

Natasha caught Clint's attention and lifted an eyebrow.

_Was that necessary, Barton?_

He shrugged in response and slammed his chair back on four legs.

_Hunter started it._

"I am so tired of their pissing contest," May mumbled, and shoved the clip back into her gun with a little more force than necessary. "Did either of you do anything?"

"I divorced them both," Bobbi offered. "But you'd think that would count as common ground."

"I think it's principle. They feel like they should be enemies, so they are."

It was strange, because Hunter struck her as exactly the type of guy who should be Clint's new best-friend-slash-drinking-buddy. So far, all they'd accomplished was a series of progressively more ridiculous arguments. They'd done the classic football vs. soccer debate, they'd destroyed the firing range with the guns vs. arrows argument, and Clint topped it off by accusing Hunter of having a 'stupid pansy accent'. Which had hurt Jemma's feelings, and Natasha had to drag him to the lab to apologize, and this was exactly why Strike Team Delta worked alone.

She finished cleaning and reassembling her guns, trying to ignore the uncomfortable prickling sensation along the back of her neck. They were still stuck on the footage of her and Steve, talking about her, shooting little glances across the room to the gun-cleaning party.

She longed to ask May to go break it up, but Morse was sat beside her cleaning her own guns, and it seemed like a weakness to let on how twitchy the attention made her feel. Coulson was somewhere on base; maybe he'd wander into the common area and save her.

"The mental calculations," Jemma was saying, awe behind her tone. "The physics involved. It _is_ a rather impressive jump."

"It's staged," Hunter insisted. Clint growled. "Make your girlfriend prove it, then."

She bristled at that. May's eyebrows shot up across from her.

"Enough of this shit," Clint declared. She heard his chair scrape back. "Meet us on the Bus."

She turned her head just enough to get the group in her peripheral vision. They were all rising from the table, Clint stalking away in the lead.

"Natasha," he barked on his way out. She gathered her guns and spare clips and followed him.

She wouldn't ordinarily jump just because Clint demanded it, but Hunter had begun to grate on her nerves a little, too. Nobody had ever suggested the Black Widow should prove her skills before.

They reconvened in the cargo hold of the Bus a half-hour later, Natasha in her catsuit and Clint in his tac gear.

"This is a terrible idea," Fitz called, voice muffled by the reinforced glass of the lab doors. "I'm not involved in this, for the record. I'm doing science."

Jemma sighed fondly and shook her head before turning to Natasha.

"If you gave me the afternoon, I could calculate the approximate speed and velocity of the alien vehicle. We could rig a zip line for you to grab after Agent Barton throws you, so it would be authentic."

"Let's not," she replied. She was doubtful that Clint could get her very far off the ground. "I don't think this is going to turn out anything like the New York footage."

Clint seized her wrist and dragged her to the middle of the hold, then turned to address their assembled teammates.

"Okay, I'll be Cap. This is my shield." He held up a rectangular lid from one of the smaller shipping containers. "There's your burned-out husk of a car."

He gestured to the shiny red convertible a few feet away. Her stomach clenched uncomfortably.

"Trip's going to throw his football from the top of the stairs, and she's going to catch it. That's the closest we could get to an alien motorcycle on short notice." He turned to Natasha. "Show me where to stand, then jump."

"This is a really shitty idea, Barton," she whispered as she positioned him in relation to the car. Doing pretend science with Fitz definitely sounded like the better option. Less likely to get disemboweled that way.

"Just do it. I'm trying to protect your honor."

She snorted with derision.

"You know what Coulson's going to do if he sees this? He'll deport me, straight back to Russia. I'm sure the KGB will be _delighted_ to see me again."

"You're being dramatic."

"It's not going to be your boot print on Lola's hood."

"Trip can buff it out. _Go_."

He gave her a shove toward the car. She _was_ tired of Hunter running his mouth, even if most of it was provoked by her partner, and Coulson had been tied up in his office all morning. It was unlikely he'd show up in the ten seconds it'd take for her to reenact the shield jump.

She bounced on her toes a few times. Clint took up a defensive stance and braced the plastic lid against his arm.

She ran three long strides and vaulted off the hood of Coulson's Corvette.

"_ROMANOFF!_"

The strangled, slightly hysterical shout startled her. She had a quick glimpse of Coulson striding into the hold before Clint thrust the shipping container lid up to meet her. The toe of her boot slipped on the plastic and he cracked her in the knee instead; she fell against the makeshift shield and threw Clint off balance. Her momentum paired with his threw her into an ungraceful flip, and while Clint fell hard on his side she rolled and slammed into the wall of the cargo hold. Trip's football made a sad, hollow echo as it bounced down the cargo ramp and into the hangar.

She heard a faint '_Oh, shit..._' from Hunter, a cough that may have been a laugh from Trip, and an exasperated groaning noise from May. Then...

"_IT IS NEVER OKAY TO STAND ON LOLA_!"

Natasha winced and played dead. Maybe Coulson would buy it.

"Disciplinary write-ups! All of you! _Even you, May_!"

"I was doing science!" Fitz protested.

"Get up," Coulson snarled, and Natasha opened her eyes. He reached down and hauled her up by the back of her catsuit. She limped along beside him, pain lancing through her knee, as he collected Clint as well and marched them down the cargo ramp.

"You know," Skye began pensively from somewhere behind them, "The Cavalry lived up to the hype, but Strike Team Delta leaves something to be desired."


End file.
